August 5, 2003
I can understand how easy it is to become a barfly. Last night I decided to top off my final evening in Atlanta with a nightcap in the hotel's lounge. Absolute Citroen, straight up. Several of them, in fact. And I was being catered to by an overly solicitous bartender, who was perhaps moved to pity by the poor schlub drinking straight vodka, noting he was the only person in the joint flying solo while pathetically humming along with pianist, sweetly churning out a medley from Phantom of the Opera. It was the loneliest I have felt since David died.